


Two Steps Back

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M, Porn Watching, Self-Loathing, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4203741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Admission didn't come easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Steps Back

**Author's Note:**

> If you're triggered by implications of someone dissociating, no matter how small the implication, I'd advise you not read this. I'm not 100% sure if it is dissociation, but hey better safe than sorry. 
> 
> As always these guys have no business doing kink bc they're still not safe or anything about it.

Stiles didn’t text him. Jackson felt like texting him—telling him that the three day rule was bullshit, but fuck. He didn’t want to be held accountable for whatever the hell this was. The punching with feelings. 

Jackson was not emotionally stunted like so many would say (Stiles included); he recognized the feelings for what they were—the same feelings that he started getting three or four months after he and Lydia began their fuckbuddy arrangement when he was looking forward to her coming over for more than just getting off, like when he didn’t care that they were watching The Notebook more than he was getting his dick wet. The problem was that this was _Stiles_. Gawky, too much… _himself_ to be fun, and the guy Jackson wanted to punch him in the face. That Jackson _wanted_. The feelings started making up excuses, that Jackson’s good fashion sense would rub off, that Stiles would stop being a dickhole at least half the time, that maybe it would be okay to let himself have this. Being punched in the face and all the intensity that came with it.

But none of that mattered because it’d been a week and a half since they’d had their date and they hadn’t so much as looked at each other in the hallway. Jackson was a pretty confident guy he’d say, but even he started getting doubts when he got nothing for days. And like most things, it pissed him the fuck off. 

Mad enough to ignore a call from Scott because on top of being _Scott_ he was Stiles’ best friend. Mad enough to rant about it to Danny, who only had ‘Well maybe you could call him?’ to say about it. Mad enough to clench the corners of his desk until his knuckles went white and nearly say ‘Actually, I’m working with Greenberg,’ when they were switching partners in chemistry, and Scott jostled Stiles until he came over to Jackson—but he didn’t say a thing, just forced his fingers to move and agreed. 

So he was stuck watching Mr. Hahn’s mouth move without hearing a single word because he was all too aware of Stiles at his left. They were nearly a full foot apart but Jackson’s skin tingled like they were millimeters, and Jackson caught himself rubbing the part of his arm closest to Stiles in between bouts of annoyance at Stiles' mouth breathing. 

The classroom suddenly got louder, and Jackson blinked away his inattention when Stiles poked him with the highlighter he’d been doodling with during the instructions. 

“So you, uh, ready to do this thing?” Stiles asked, all easy going and goofy like everything was all good. Like he hadn’t been ignoring Jackson for days. 

“Fine,” Jackson said tightly, and it was only through sheer will that he kept himself from sneering. 

Stiles looked at out of the corner of his eyes like he was trying to figure something out, then shrugged and slid a beaker across the lab bench to Jackson. “Can you go get the stuff from the front?” 

Jackson looked at the group of people gathering up front, probably around a huge bottle, and grabbed the beaker with his palm across the top while he stood. He didn’t answer, but his actions spoke for him. 

Jackson grabbed the few premeasured stuff from the lab bench up front, then stood in the blob that somehow functioned as a line around the big bottle, waiting to pour 80mL of chemical-whatever into his beaker. He glared hard at the hands of the person in front of him in line, and was proud he didn’t look at Stiles once. 

“You get everything?” Stiles asked when Jackson got back to the table, and Jackson shrugged dismissively. 

Apparently this bothered Stiles because he slammed his hands down flat on the table, pencil trapped underneath one, and Jackson startled before frantically glancing around to see if anyone was looking at them. Some blonde girl did, but the moment Jackson made eye contact she turned back around to her own business. When she seemed to be focused away from him, he looked at Stiles. 

He was hunched over the lab bench, torso tight against the blacktop, jaw clenched so hard Jackson thought he could hear the teeth grinding. Stiles’ hands had moved to clutch around the edge of the bench and his pencil was nowhere to be seen. Anger pooled in Jackson’s gut, and he clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Stiles bit out, like this was all _Jackson’s_ fault. But fucking _hell_ was it Jackson’s fault. 

“Like you don’t know.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and threw himself back in his chair in a dramatic gesture. “Yeah actually I don’t know, and this seems to be a reoccurring problem between us,” Stiles said, voice pitched high but not loudly. “It seems to stem from the fact that you won’t _tell me anything_.” 

“I won’t—” Jackson started, so much heat in his voice he’d gone above room volume. 

“Stilinski, Whittemore, is there a problem?” came Mr. Hahn’s voice from up front. 

Stiles plastered a smile on his face and said, “Na, Mr. Hahn. We’re just really excited about this lab.” Jackson shut his mouth and finally sat in his seat.

Both of them focused on their lab in silence for a few, until their emotions had built back up and the room had lost interest in seeing what Stilinski’s and Whittemore’s deal was. Jackson didn’t even know what the hell they were making and just sort of aimlessly poured and mixed and wrote things down when Stiles told him to.

“You haven’t talked to me since friday,” Jackson said evenly, and worried the seam on the side of his jeans with his thumb. 

Stiles looked up from his notes curiously, then seemed to register what Jackson had said. He glanced somewhere to the left of Jackson and blushed. 

“Sorry, I’m...I’m new at this and I. You know how it goes—you worry about the three day thing, then Scott comes over and suddenly it’s a week later.” 

Inexperience was kind of cute on Stiles, but Jackson didn’t want inexperience, not for this. 

“No, I can’t really say Scott has distracted me from my own social life,” Jackson said dryly, and Stiles’ eyes flicked back towards Jackson. 

“What do you call that period of obsession with Scott and werewolves so much that you dumped Lydia?”

Heat flushed under Jackson’s skin and he was just as angry as before, just like that. It locked his jaw and kept him from yelling, which was maybe a good thing considering his and Stiles’ past interactions. The glare he couldn’t control, and Stiles shrunk back. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, his hands drumming against the table. “That was cold.” Stiles eye’s turned back to Jackson, and a little confidence seeped into Stiles’ shoulders again. “But that’s what happens when you’re the only one in your immediate social group _not_ bitten by a werewolf.”

Jackson didn’t answer, wouldn’t answer, and Stiles sighed. 

“I am—um, I did want to continue this,” Stiles said, fidgeting under Jackson’s stare. His eyes met Jackson’s and he continued,” If. You’re into that too.” 

Jackson swallowed, and his thumb resumed rubbing at his jeans. He did. Want that. As much as it made his skin feel too tight and his stomach clench, he fucking did want it, but his mouth wouldn’t move. 

Stiles shifted. “That’s a little unnerving and 100% not an answer, I just want you to know, but yeah. If we’re gonna do this I think we should talk first.” 

Talk. That’s all Stiles ever wanted to do. Why couldn’t he have been more like Lydia? Where they fucked, and in this case punched, until feelings developed and Jackson asked Lydia out, because who wouldn’t want to date Jackson? Talking was for old people who had to wait an hour for viagra to kick in. 

Stiles seemed to pick up on his thoughts because he sat up straighter and said, “No. We’re _absolutely_ going to talk if you want to continue this.” 

Jackson let out a harsh breath and flung his hand up to the table. “Fine. We’ll talk.” 

“Okay, at lunch then,” Stiles said, and the smile he gave Jackson made him want to kick himself in the ass for feeling so stupid.

* * *

Stiles had beaten him to the lunch room. Danny looked like he was going to say something about Jackson waving him off for lunch until he saw Stiles gesturing at Jackson, and then he just looked smug. The wave of annoyance it gave Jackson was usually reserved for Stiles and/or McCall. 

No area of the lunch room was truly private, but Stiles had chosen a nearly empty table close to the football table, which was so loud it was basically a noise suck. 

There was a part of Jackson that wanted to put off talking as long as possible, to distract Stiles with meaningly arguments because there was no way in hell Stiles would back down from one of those, but that would be avoidant, and unlike Stiles, Jackson didn’t avoid shit. Not even when his nerves had his lungs in a vicegrip—because he didn’t get nerves or butterflies or whatever shit people who made _excuses_ got. So he took a deep breath to crush the not-nerves and sat down across from Stiles. 

“So. Talk.” 

Stiles made an absolutely repulsive face, his mouth and eyes open in shock with chewed up something that called itself taco salad for all to see. He recovered quickly though, and Jackson watched Stiles gulp down juice with thinly veiled disgust on his face. 

Stiles swallowed and looked away from Jackson for a second or two before meeting his eyes. “Yeah, absolutely,” he said. 

“I’m a—” Stiles continued, then raised his arm like he was going to scratch his neck before deciding against it and plopping it down next to his tray. He looked down at his hand and started tapping the edge of his tray. Jackson could hear Stiles heart beating—fast—without focusing in. “Well I’ve been doing some googling, and. I’m a Dom. Mostly. I mean rough werewolf sex kind of gets me—Jackson? You Okay?” 

No. No he _fucking_ wasn’t. Jackson’s hands were clenched tightly in fists above his tense thighs, burning with the effort to keep still, to keep from running; his back was ramrod straight, so straight his wildly beating heart felt like it could knock him clear over if it beat just the right way; and his focus completely on Stiles’ lips, echoing _Dom_ over and over and over again in his head. Because if Stiles was a Dom, that would make Jackson a...No. No he wasn’t. So he liked getting punched in the face; it was just a different facet of those who liked getting their ass slapped during sex, no big deal. He wasn’t—Stiles couldn’t. They _weren’t_. 

“What kind of disgusting person are you?” Jackson heard himself saying. It sounded like an entirely different person, or like he was out of time, some future or past him talking. He couldn’t tell how loud he was being, or feel his lips moving, but objectively he knew it had to be him. “I’m not some pathetic _love slave_ licking your shoes while I beg for your dick. I’m not—I’m not like that.” 

“That’s not—”

Jackson was standing, tray in hand, and he couldn’t remember how he got there. “I’m _not_ ,” Jackson said again, and he left the lunch room.

* * *

Jackson’s hands were trembling against his steering wheel, his breath coming in short stuttering pants or not at all, and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. Every time he thought he’d calmed down, he looked at his front door, where he’d sat against after that date, or the fucking tray he’d put in his passenger seat, and suddenly remember the shape Stiles’ lips made when he said ‘Dom,’ or the hurt face he’d made when Jackson had left, and suddenly he was back to his shaking, unmoving state. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. 

They’d been in school. They’d been in a _lunchroom_ , for God’s sake. They’d had that conversation in public and he couldn't remember how loud they’d been. Did people know? Did they hear Stiles was a… a Dom. And think Jackson was a _that_. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He refused to be. 

“Fuck,” he yelled into his car. 

Jackson punched the steering wheel, and it felt so good he punched it again. Over and Over again until the cranky asshole grandma who sat out on her porch all day yelled to ‘quit it or she’d call the police.’ 

He yanked open the car door to fucking scream at her or something, but she’d turned back into her house for once and he just ended up throwing the tray from lunch as hard as he could toward her house. It landed a crushed mess at the edge of his driveway, and he glared at it with all the venom he could muster. 

Jackson staggered into his house before his neighbor could actually call the police and went up to his room. Karen was home and called for him, but he ignored her; she wouldn’t do anything anyway. Not to Jackson. 

He slammed his door shut when he entered and threw himself into the nearest seat—his computer chair. Jackson had the urge to push everything off his desk, like that would maybe stop the shaking in his arms and the horrible feeling in his stomach, but he saw his laptop and reconsidered. 

Just because Stiles was a Dom didn’t make Jackson anything. He was normal; he liked normal sex. And—and Jackson would prove it. 

He stilled his hands enough to pull his laptop closer with one hand and unbutton his jeans with the other. He didn’t hide his porn under heaps of folders with unassuming names like he’d known some others to do—David didn’t go near his room and Karen was too concerned about giving Jackson space or whatever to go snooping in his shit—it was one click away from his desktop. It’d been awhile since he’d even used it—at least not since before this shit with Stiles started, but he had one well loved _normal_ video that had never failed him before. 

Jackson froze when he saw the title. 

_Big Tit Head Bitch Cheerleader Gets Dick the Way She Wants It_. 

He’d never thought anything of it before. What kind of teenager looked at the titles when the thumbnail looked good? It didn’t mean anything—it couldn’t. This was just Stiles' talk putting shit in his head, making him over analyze. 

Jackson started the video and slid a hand into his pants. 

It started like any cheesy porn did. Girl wearing skimpy cheerleader outfit met quarterback, then porn dialogue happened. The guy was...not _bad_ looking, but he definitely agreed with the choice the cheerleader made. He always thought it was kind of interesting that she kicked out the first guy for not liking the way he looked or whatever, and then porn dialogue’d the fuck out of another football player, who took her out to the sports shed to fuck her on the high jump mats at halftime. 

“Take off your pants, big boy, I want to see that hard cock,” cheerleader said, and Jackson sucked in a breath. 

She sprawled out on the high jump mats and showed the viewers she wasn’t wearing underwear, and the football player hurried to strip. 

“Look how hard that thing is for me. I wanna suck your cock so bad.” 

The football player practically jumped on the mat to get to her, but in the way straight porn guys acted excited so they could still show off the girl. She pushed him back by the shoulder, and clicked her tongue in a way that reminded Jackson of Lydia, and _fuck_ , Stiles.

Jackson’s hand stopped moving. 

“First I want you to take my pussy out to dinner. I want you to make me so wet, Baby.” 

Jackson shut the laptop as fast as he was able and dropped his head to the desk. He was so fucking hard—he was always this hard watching this one, and the fucking hadn’t even started yet. 

He sucked in a shuddering breath and pushed away the image of Stiles laying back on those mats, telling Jackson how much he wanted him to suck his dick like he knew it was all Jackson wanted. It didn’t mean anything. It was porn he’d seen many times—it was no surprise he’d start replacing the characters with current crushes. He just—he needed new porn. 

Jackson pulled his hand out of his pants and opened up the laptop again. He went on some amateur porn site, ignoring all his usual haunts because...well he just did, and searched for vanilla porn. 

He clicked on a video that had attractive actors and put his hand back in his pants. After a minute or so of that he rolled his eyes and clicked another video. After four more videos of the same his dick started losing interest, and Jackson kicked the wall behind his desk as hard as he could. 

He clicked another. He jerked himself hard before the actors had barely started in an attempt to actually feel something, and then the standard beginning of video blowjob came and the guy started pulling the girl’s hair, telling her to suck it even harder and petting her face when she did, and Jackson exited the window so fast he’d barely just started to imagine himself in her position. 

That still didn’t mean anything. So what if he liked sex with people who knew what they wanted? It wasn’t a bad thing. And sex with Lydia was nothing like with Stiles. So that’s. Just all it was. It was Stiles’ fault things were weird. 

Jackson had his phone in his hand and was dialing Lydia before he’d thought about it. The phone rang five times before Lydia picked up, and Jackson had nearly ended the call and put it back in his pocket.

“Jackson, you do realize school is still in—”

“Lydia, have I ever done something weird during sex?” he said before he could talk himself out of it. 

There was a slight pause on the other end, and the click of a door shutting. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Lydia said, completely blasé, and Jackson bit down a snarl. 

“It’s a simple question,” Jackson spit out. 

“This isn’t, like, an attempt to get back together is it, Jackson? Because I’ve already—”

“Jesus Christ, Lydia. Just answer the fucking question.” 

His patience was running out and Lydia had the gall to sigh like Jackson was a child to be humored. Jackson nearly hung up on her. 

“What? Are you like, doing werewolf things and trying to figure out what? Because you started out hating to be marked and giving me hickeys and stuff, and then all of a sudden you were really into that.” 

Jackson ground his teeth together and Lydia sighed again; she’d always heard him do that and she used to reprimand him for it. Just the thought of it after all this...Stiles weird thing, had him stopping immediately before she could even say it, like he was afraid he’d get turned on from it or something. 

“Is this about Stiles? Danny said something about you and him. Are you asking him to do stuff and he’s not into it?” 

“Sure. Yeah. Did I ask things you weren’t into?” 

Lydia hummed a bit, and Jackson’s stomach churned. His knee wouldn’t stop jiggling. 

“I don’t actually remember you asking for much at all—Oh, wait! You’d always ask how you were after, and if I told you it was good you’d eat me out all soft and lovingly, and if I told you you sucked you’d eat me out aggressively. I used to tell you what I wanted to get your mouth on me the way I wanted; I miss that actually. But I don’t really know why Stiles wouldn’t be into that.” 

Jackson’s stomach dropped. He looked off to the side and ran his thumb over his lips. 

“Yeah...I don’t know,” Jackson said into his hand. “Look—its. Sometimes the sex isn’t as good and _we_ always had good sex so how did you...how did you turn me on?” 

There was a noise on the other line and the sound of barely covered muffled laughter. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just. You’re basically dealing with a virgin right because this is _Stiles_? And you’re complaining about sex?” 

“How. Did. You. Turn. Me. On.” 

“Jesus, Jackson. Jerk off or something because you’re way too tense for this right now.”

“Lydia.” 

There was another sigh before Lydia answered. 

“Easy. You were always super hot for me if we fucked after a big loss in lacrosse or something.” 

Jackson went cold. Lydia always reamed him out after a loss; she didn’t date losers. 

“Thanks,” Jackson said numbly, and hung up before she could reply. His phone chirped with a text shortly after, and Jackson barely looked at the ‘Lydia’ and ‘what kind of call was that?’ and ‘are you okay?’ on his screen before dismissing the banner and pulling up Stiles’ contact.

Jackson took the two steps to his bed and just sort of collapsed on it. He felt hollow and confused and apparently...Maybe Stiles had the right idea about him. Maybe Jackson would never be what he wanted to be—what he should be. Just pathetic and weak and lusting after someone who would punch him in the face, who he _wanted_ to punch him in the face.

He stared at Stiles’ name until his eyes went blurry, and then the phone’s battery saving screen came back on. 

What if it wasn’t just Stiles? What if he didn’t do any of this shit with Stiles and he fucked up relationships later in life? The punching felt good and during he’d always felt...more on, less off kilter, at least until he realized what he was doing. 

Jackson unlocked his phone and swiped Stiles’ name. The call picked up immediately. 

Stiles didn’t say anything, but Jackson could hear him breathing quietly.

“Hey...I,” Jackson started, and his voice sounded so listless. He cleared his throat. “You’re right. I’m. A sub. I want you to punch me in the face.” 

Stiles sucked in a breath while Jackson held his. He really fucking hoped Scott hadn’t answered Stiles’ phone for him.

“Do you...Are you going to Maja’s party tonight?” Stiles asked, sounding hopeful. 

He wasn’t planning on it—Maja was closer to Stiles’ social standing than Jackson’s—but he could. Their track records for parties weren’t great, but maybe it’d be okay this time. 

“Yeah,” he answered, and Jackson could feel Stiles’ grin through the phone. 

“Awesome, I’ll see you there.” 

“Yeah,” Jackson said, and they ended the call.

* * *

Jackson entered the party like he hadn’t run out of school at lunch and had a breakdown. Nice sweater, put together, and with Danny and a few guys from swimming in tow because it was definitely Jackson’s job to make this party cooler if he was supposed to be there. 

The host was nearby with shock on her face because she really didn’t expect this, but Jackson was too busy staring at Stiles, who was standing by the couch with Scott and some others. Stiles offered him a grin like he was sure he could, and Jackson’s stomach fluttered; he looked good for Stiles’ clothes being what they were. 

Jackson wasn’t the smile-across-the-room type, so he winked at Stiles and walked to the kitchen. He’d picked up more than once with that tactic.

Maybe everything would be fine. And as Jackson filled his cup with something cheap, he went giddy with the thought that maybe tonight would be better than fine. Maybe Stiles would finally punch him in the face, now that they talked or whatever. 

Danny cleared his throat, and unsurprisingly, when Jackson turned to the open door, Stiles was standing there, leaning against the door frame like he thought he was actually cool. Jackson couldn’t help but smirk at him.

Stiles took it as an invitation and walked a little too eagerly towards Jackson and grabbed himself a drink too. It put Jackson between the counter and Stiles’ body, and Jackson swallowed down a few gulps of his drink to keep himself from shoving out of that space. He glanced around the room, but it was empty, Danny having left the moment Jackson had all his attention on Stiles apparently, and Jackson let himself relax. 

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, like he was trying not to scare Jackson, and Jackson nearly pulled away at that because he _wasn’t_ scared and he resented the implication. Instead he pursed his lips and grabbed Stiles’ hips to drag him into kissing range to prove he wasn’t scared. 

Stiles set his drink down on the counter behind Jackson, and Jackson took a deep, shaking breath; he was in a cage that smelled like Stiles, alcohol, and fucking axe, and he _liked_ it. If someone ever said he’d be in this position with Stiles, Jackson would’ve laughed in their face, called Danny and Lydia, and then laughed some more. He nearly felt like laughing himself just because of how ridiculous this was, how smooth Stiles thought he was when he lifted his hand up to Jackson’s cheek and tilted his head up. 

He hadn’t dated Lydia as long as he had without being able to detect a test when he was thrown one, and that’s what this was. A test. And, well, if Stiles thought he’d pansy out now he had another thing coming.

Jackson did what he did best and licked his lips slowly, watched Stiles’ eyes go out of focus a little when he watched the movement, then leaned in just enough for Stiles to choke on a breath and then press their mouths together. 

Fucking aced it. 

It was a little wet, but mostly chaste, and with the way Stiles was twitching, Jackson could tell he wanted to deepen it, so he pulled back and reveled in Stiles’ sigh, turned his head just slightly, and said, “You want to go upstairs?” 

Unsurprisingly, Stiles had him by the wrist and was leading him upstairs before he’d even answered. 

They fell into bed easily, as if this wasn’t their first kiss, and Jackson rolled Stiles on top. It felt good, which is why he did it, but fuck if the whole everything that happened today didn’t make him feel like Stiles was about to like, collar him, shove him out the door, then make him suck his dick in front of everyone so everyone would know Jackson was—was like this. 

But Stiles didn’t. He just moaned in a way that made Jackson’s knees pull in tight around Stiles’ hips, and slid his hands into Jackson’s hair. 

“Fuck,” Stiles said into Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson put a hand on Stiles’ face to try and direct him into some better kissing technique. At first he dove into with vigor, then Jackson pushed harder on his face, and Stiles jerked Jackson’s face away by his hair. 

The gasp that flew out of Jackson’s mouth had no chance of being suppressed, and Stiles’ eyes went hooded. Something dark flooded into Jackson’s belly with all the heat, and Jackson squirmed slightly under the intensity of Stiles’ gaze. _Fuck_. This was Stiles. Awkward, no dress sense, and hardly a self preservation instinct Stiles. But Jackson would do anything to keep that gaze on him like that, like he was everything. 

Stiles tugged Jackson’s hair again, enough to move him slightly on the pillow underneath his neck, and Jackson’s arms dropped limply to the side because he couldn’t seem to find the strength to keep them up anymore. 

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Stiles said, and his _voice_. Shit, Jackson didn’t think Stiles could actually achieve this hotness level, but Stiles’ mouth had always been his best asset.

“Your lips are so swollen, like that time you took my cock. I want to use your throat again, but you wouldn’t get to swallow down any part of me. I’d smear white across those red lips and not let you lick it off.” 

The grip on his hair was so strong his eyes started to prickle, but Jackson could only feel his pants getting tighter.

One of Stiles’ hands trailed down Jackson’s sides and Jackson pressed into it, and pressed even harder when it dipped down into the vee of his legs. 

“But it wouldn’t be time for you to come yet, not the way you want.” Stiles rubbed him through his jeans at the same rate he pulled on his hair with the other hand, then leaned in close to press his lips against Jackson’s jaw. 

“I want to ruin you,” he said into Jackson’s skin, so low Jackson wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it, and Jackson let out a sound he’d never made in the presence of Lydia. 

“Please,” Jackson whispered, and then immediately flushed because he was fucking begging. This was way more than just making out, and Jackson needed it. He needed to be ruined, wrecked, _used_ by Stiles. The thought alone made him breathless.

Stiles pulled back and sat on his haunches, taking a full look of Jackson. 

“You sure you deserve it? After lunch today?” 

Jackson’s hand lifted up to grab at his own hair now that Stiles’ was gone. “Fucking hell, Stiles I just needed…” 

He felt drunk or high off of something, but he hadn’t had near enough of his drink to be feeling this far gone. His vision had completely tunneled to Stiles and he just wanted...he didn’t know what. 

“Please just touch me,” Jackson said, letting desperation bleed into his voice. 

Stiles smirked with his kiss swollen lips and Jackson became painfully aware of how fast he could probably come with that hard stare on him. One of Stiles’ hands cupped Jackson’s cheek, and the other moved back like he was going to—oh fuck he was finally going to punch him. Jackson’s breath hitched, and he scrabbled at the hand on his face, trying to hold it or push it or just convey how much he wanted this, wanted Stiles. 

Which is of course right when Scott burst through the door. 

Scott barely finished saying ‘Stiles, we’ve got trouble,’ before Jackson recovered enough from being frozen in shock to push Stiles, still with his arm up for a punch, as hard as he could off the bed. The panic must’ve bled into his force because it was definitely werewolf strength that sent Stiles careening into Scott, and they both looked surprised. 

Jackson had to fix this; this was completely wrong. He stood up from the bed, his breath coming in fast, and said as loud as possible, “Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t want a loser like you anywhere near me.” 

Stiles face shifted, and Jackson looked away before he could see anything that resembled the angry hurt he saw forming, but Jackson had seen it enough times to fill in the spaces. 

“It’s not like you’re hiding anything you little ass-pube,” Stiles said, and Jackson shut his eyes at the sound. It was a darker version of the commanding voice he’d heard from Stiles before, and it scared him how much it affected him. “‘The loser’s’ best friend caught you, and don’t think for a second he hasn’t already seen those texts where you begged for me like a fucking kid begs for mommy.”

Jackson snarled, too caught up in the hurt, in the suggestion that Scott knew about him to keep himself from looking at Stiles’ face. It was so hard, unforgiving, and Jackson was scared. He opened his mouth, snapped it back closed again, and grabbed the nearest thing to his hand, a dresser drawer apparently, and flung it as Stiles as hard as he could because _Scott fucking knew_ , and Stiles told him. 

Before he could see if it connected, Jackson was out the window and running. 

He ran past his car, the neighborhood, and further. The tears stinging at his eyes weren’t pleasure anymore, and he...Stiles turned him into this, then betrayed his trust, and now Jackson would probably have no one to take care of him, of this. Jackson’s skin itched and he felt so hollow and brittle, he’d snap like a turkey bone at Thanksgiving. 

So he ran. 

He found himself at the decrepit Hale house, and didn’t realize how badly he needed a fight until he was screaming Derek’s name into the ashen walls, but Derek wasn’t there. 

And Scott knew. 

Jackson kicked open the barely together door and grinned with tight satisfaction at the crunching sound. He called for Derek again even though it was futile, and shifted his hand enough to drag claws through old upholstery. Would it hurt Derek to see his childhood furniture torn to shreds like this? He hoped so since Derek had the gall not to be at his fucking house. 

On his way to next room, his foot caught on a piece of broken furniture and Jackson tripped into a big fucking piece of furniture.

"Fucking shitting piece of shit," Jackson yelled, and kicked at the furniture and wished it was Stiles. There was no cracking, no splitting of wood though. Just a solid thunk, and Jackson leaned forward to rest his forehead against it. Wet rolled down his cheeks, and he lifted a hand to angrily swipe at the tears that had finally fucking started falling. His throat wouldn't stop convulsing and he was so pathetic. 

Jackson sucked in a shuddery breath and pulled back enough to see what he'd been leaning against. An armoire, fancy with a few scuff marks where his foot had met it, and Jackson wanted, no needed to destroy it. He yelled until his throat was raw and punched the armoire like he’d wanted to punch his car earlier, until he’d run out of steam because it _wasn't fucking breaking_ and slid to the floor. Jackson cradled his hand in his lap and watched the flesh on his knuckles knit back together. He didn’t feel any better. 

But Scott still knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah yeah, this is so late. But in my defense I got caught up in da:i and rewatched Hemlock Grove which gave me trash baby feelings for the only trash baby more of a trash baby than Jackson is. Next one is entirely outlined (and back to porn), so it shouldn't take long.


End file.
